


MumboJumbo Starved to Death.

by drainspoon



Series: Newt's Life Work aka his Angst Collection [7]
Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Gen, Heavy Angst, Isolation, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Mumbo angst, Paranoia, Psychological Torture, Sacrifice, Secrets, Starvation, Watchers, Watching, and probably is, based on the word "cameras", but you'll never know, that is implied to be totally unnecessary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25793815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drainspoon/pseuds/drainspoon
Summary: He was the only one to know their secret. With his death, it would come too, and no one else would have to feel the eyes watching, lingering, wrapping, stealing their souls from their body to make them a husk of what their friends had once known. He would go down. It would go down.
Series: Newt's Life Work aka his Angst Collection [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924231
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	MumboJumbo Starved to Death.

**Author's Note:**

> more angst coming soon :)

in the coming days, mumbo became increasingly aware of the feeling of something _lurking_. a creature he couldn't see hanging over his shoulder, watching his movements, doing nothing but observing his every slightest motion. he'd searched his base madly in the depths of the night, eventually falling into a deoxygenated slumber as he hyperventilated, curled up in a ball, only to feel the lingering gaze double up tenfold the next morning. since that experience, he had learned not to mess with what was not rightfully his to know and to discover, but the eyes stayed trained on his back. out of sight, but certainly not out of mind.

it hitched on his every breath, invisible hands that it seemed only he could feel entangling themselves slowly around his body until his thoughts contained only the watchful gaze of the unknown, and his movements were fully dependent on its feeling. fingers touched to his own, curling slyly around his palms so that he would not open his inventory without checking behind his back. they slipped through his senses, slithering around his legs so that he would not move anywhere without wondering from where he would be watched. invisible skin wrapped around his throat so that he would not _breathe_ without his mind on the gaze. his whole life, touched by the hands of something he could not see until he depended on it in every moment, disassociated from himself for fear of letting it know him for what he was.

it was a sick sense of desperation and attachment, emotions akin to a stockholm syndrome like situation, even though he was not trapped in any way, nor was he held against his will by anything that he could see, he could touch, he could breathe.

the lurking drummed in his chest beside his heart, a second heartbeat he needed to survive even though he begged and pleaded with his own mentality to just let the cursed feelings free. he pinned his mouth shut tight, sealing himself away from his fellow hermits as it got harder and harder to suffocate the urge to release his pent up fears, spill over the overflowing cup he kept down to someone one else who could aid him in his miseries. the temptation was nauseating, and he found that he would have to detach himself from the world to stop himself finally—it was safer this way. if the unknown watched only him because he knew of their stare, what was to say it wouldn't watch someone else?

instead of a person, he flooded his buckets and buckets of panic and tears into a journal, of which he spent hours and hours in his day writing in, seeing not the light nor the day nor anyone besides himself and creatures that pawed at the corners of his vision from the lack of sleep, as the only time the burning of the eyes stopped was when he passed out from exhaustion. a notebook was not with mind, nor emotions. it could not torture a notebook for knowing his secret, for knowing theirs. 

it could certainly punish mumbo. and it did. he'd told their secret, even to an inanimate object, something that couldn't spread the word. the intensity doubled, eyes watching even the rise and fall of his chest. he tucked the notebook away in a drawer, and began to spend the rest of his days in his bunker, head in his hands as the world spun and figures danced in his sight. when his wrists became too weak to hold up his head, he dropped his head down, allowing it to bob in space as he drifted in and out of consciousness. when his legs gave out as he stood up to grab something to eat after forgetting for who knows how long, he allowed himself to remain on the floor, vision buzzing in and out as holes burned into his body judgmentally.

no one came knocking. he told them he was busy, working on something and definitely not to be disturbed for any reason at all, and the hermits respected his wishes, as they always had. they were good people. he knew they would be sad when he eventually faded, and even knowing that he did nothing to stop it. he was the only one to know their secret. with his death, it would come too, and no one else would have to feel the eyes watching, lingering, wrapping, stealing their souls from their body to make them a husk of what their friends had once known. he would go down. it would go down. that's why, when he felt the onset of death approaching, with the communicator close to him, the ability to ask for help _right there_ —he did nothing, typing out with shaky hands a small message. nothing too big, nothing too small. simple.

perfect.

<MumboJumbo> <3  
<MumboJumbo starved to death.>


End file.
